


Unwanted Critique

by bzedan



Series: Dario's Indulgence [2]
Category: Lucha Underground, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Gen, Kayfabe Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7267066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bzedan/pseuds/bzedan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dario's writing, and confidence, is interrupted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwanted Critique

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after season 2, episode 20, “The Contenders” and involves a small spoiler for those who haven’t seen it or the episode previous.

Dario’s slim copper fingers flew across the keys, caught up in the brusque rush of words.

 

_“But aren’t you also worried about him?” Ivelisse snapped at Son of Havoc, her voice sharp with concern. “Dario is out there saying Angelico is injured but we haven’t heard a word from him ourselves. And, meanwhile, we’re constantly on the roster competing as singles, like he’s trying to take our minds off of it.”_

_Son of Havoc touched the small woman on a powerful brown arm, his fingers light as if he hesitated to add any weight to her worry. “Ivie, he’s an adult, we lost the trios belts, Angelico doesn’t owe us anything.” His eyes were soft behind the heavy mask. “Besides, we—”_

“Ooh, writing anything good?” The voice slithered over Dario’s shoulder and he froze like a prey animal, hands hovering above the tablet’s battered keyboard. Reflex kicked in and he slammed the tablet into its case, burying his hands against it protectively as mobile curves eased around the side of his chair to perch on the desk, creaking with black leather. Trying to compose himself, Dario turned to face the bruja, the spectre of death, Catrina, who sat with casual ownership of the suddenly very cramped office.

Finding his voice, Dario spat, “a locked door means nothing to you?”

Catrina threw back her head and laughed, leaning an arm behind her for balance. Her other hand clutched the stygian black rock, wrapped safely in red silk, an ever-present reminder of her power over death and the man of a thousand deaths.

“This was, _is_ , my office as well,” the mocking humour was gone, her smooth voice filled with easy threat. “While you hid like a child and Mil sat on his throne. This is _my_ temple and I will go where I please.” She leaned forward, dark ribbons of hair falling over her tawny amber shoulders, bringing her too close for Dario’s comfort. “And I see that in my absence, little has changed. You still hide, even as you play at being some gran jefe.”

“It’s an office, I was working.” Dario tilted his chin up a little in defiance. His brother had destroyed her champion in Graver Consequences, after all. It was his temple again, his to control. “There are still many finances to sort out, since the person who was running things in my absence was busier lighting candles and playing with knives than balancing the books.”

The lights flickered and in the flash of dark Dario saw something in Catrina’s face that caught in his throat like a shard of obsidian. He swallowed against it, not wanting to call the feeling fear, just good old-fashioned self preservation. You want to be cautious, polite even, with a woman who had returned a man to vibrant, violent life two times in the past year. He tried a smile, knowing the result was rough but hoping it got the intention across.

“But, I can of course make time for you, Catrina. What did you want?” Casually, he moved to slide the tablet into a drawer, still talking. “Another match between Mil and my brother, maybe? It looks like death just can’t keep that guy down.” The smile sharpened. “We can always try, though.”

His hand was empty. Catrina held the tablet, that damned rock of hers pressed against the screen as she scrolled. Dario winced, his entire body twisting in empathetic pain for the already battered device. “Could you, please, not?” He gestured helplessly. Catrina ignored him, lazily turning the tablet’s orientation while still holding the sharp black rubble against the glass.

“These aren’t half bad, Dario.” Catrina tossed it back to him and he fumbled, finally catching it close to his chest, clutching it protectively. “I mean some, I see why you use a pseudonym, but we all have to start somewhere, right?” She smiled with such emptiness that Dario almost felt jealous of her skill. “It’s cute, especially, how you pretend to know where Angelico is.”

“He’s injured,” Dario muttered, stubbornly.

“And where did you hear that? What representative of that high flying pretty boy told you so?” Her voice only held delight when it mocked, and as she spoke, her words were practically dancing. “Or, before you went to announce the match, were the words just in your head, ready to go?”

Dario’s mouth worked wordlessly. He couldn’t actually remember how he’d learned of Angelico’s injury. Once he’d announced it and the unlikely trio had lost the belt, he’d forgotten about the whole thing until he had an inspiration for another story. He looked up at Catrina, where she still perched on his desk, the broad planes of her face falling in and out of shadow.

“You’re not the only one who likes to control, Dario.”

The lights flickered again and Catrina was gone. Dario still held the tablet close to him, refusing to believe what she’d implied. He’d accept that she’d taken Angelico as some sort of payment for the regular defeat of her Disciples of Death, but not that she’d gotten into his head.

“And Dario,” the heavy silk voice slipped into his ear and he refused to turn his head to see if she crouched behind him. “Why don’t you ever write me into one of your stories?”


End file.
